


Five Lives They Never Led

by acidpop25



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Music & Bands, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Artists, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidpop25/pseuds/acidpop25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five different roads never taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Artists

I. _Tell me something that'll change me._

The apartment is, of course, a mess. It always is; it's an inevitable side effect of four artists sharing the same cramped space. Even though the majority of Yusuf's work happens in a darkroom and Ariadne has her studio at art school, bits of their projects invariably trickle back home, and Arthur and Eames both have their work lying around at any given time. The living space boasts a battered, godawful-ugly couch and a temperamental television; the rest of it serves as makeshift studio.

"Hey, Arthur," Eames says, without looking up. He's up to his elbows in plaster and paint– his recent love affair with abstract multimedia work has produced a few interesting pieces, and also of a hell of a lot of messes. At least he's thrown a tarp down under the canvas this time.

"How's it going?" Arthur inquires, giving Eames a wide berth as he skirts the project to slip into the kitchenette.

"Pretty good." Eames sits back on his haunches and wipes his face, leaving a smear of blue across his forehead. "At least, I think so. Hard to tell. Got a quiet afternoon to work on it though."

Arthur makes a noise in his throat and opens the fridge, bending down to dig through its contents. Cold pizza, questionable leftover Chinese, cold cuts– ah, yogurt. He checks the expiration date– still good– and yanks the foil off the top, letting the fridge door fall shut with a thump and digging a spoon out of the silverware drawer.

"Speaking of," Arthur says, settling on the couch, "where's Yusuf at?"

"Got a date," Eames informs him gleefully. "Maybe they'll hit it off. Maybe one of these days I won't have to share a bedroom."

"You are such a good friend," Arthur says dryly. "I for one like rooming with Ariadne."

"You wouldn't like it if you were getting laid."

"Maybe I'm getting laid by her."

"Like hell. She's starry-eyed over that teacher of hers."

"He's an excellent teacher," Arthur replies. He'd had Professor Cobb in his own student days, when Cobb was barely out of his master's program. The man was a brilliant artist with a penchant for surreal, elaborate dreamlike oil paintings and quite a reputation.

"Pretty sure the things she's interested in learning from him don't have much to do with art, unless it's done in chocolate body paint."

"Enough, Eames. I get your point." Arthur cocks his head at Eames' current project, watching as he splatters it liberally with green, uses fingers and brushes and sponges to smear and swirl the paint around over an uneven landscape of canvas and plaster. "That part there looks like a tree from here."

Eames cranes his neck to see from Arthur's angle. "Does a bit, yeah. Nice to know you have a _little_ imagination under that slick hair of yours."

"Just because I prefer classic techniques doesn't mean I don't have imagination," Arthur says without bite. It's a longstanding point of contention between them, contemporary versus classic, and evidently one Eames doesn't feel like getting into, because he just makes a vague sound and returns to his work. Arthur settles in, flips on the t.v., and leaves him to it.

* * *

Arthur is tipsy. Okay, so really he's drunk, but so are the other three– Ariadne has gotten her work into a gallery showing, and the celebration hadn't been restrained. There had been dinner and dancing and plenty of drinking, and right now they're sitting in a loose circle in their living room, passing a bottle of rum between them. Ariadne is curled up in her beanbag chair, giggling, and Yusuf is lounging on the floor with one of the pillows off the couch. Arthur is sunk back into the cushions of said couch rather than supporting his own weight, and Eames is next to him, gesturing with the bottle in his hand.

"–the hell are you playing Lady Gaga?" Yusuf is demanding, and Eames nearly spills rum on Arthur while waving his hands around.

"She is an _artist_ ," Eames insists, and starts singing along because he knows it'll piss off Yusuf. " _Baby is a bad boy with some retro sneakers, let's go see The Killers and make out in the bleachers..._ "

"She's a crazy chick who wears dresses made of Muppets," Yusuf says loudly, and Eames shuts him up by passing him the rum bottle and continuing, " _All we want is hot, hot boys, boys, boys._ "

"Cheers Eames," Ariadne says, snatching the bottle away from Yusuf to take a pull. Yusuf groans and covers his ears theatrically, but it's a losing battle and he knows it, since both Eames and Ariadne have a completely un-ironic love of Gaga.

"Tell them, Arthur," Yusuf begs, "tell them to stop."

Arthur quirks an eyebrow.

"You like The Long Winters," Yusuf says, "and Belle and Sebastian. And A Silent Film. You can't possibly tell me you like this shit."

"It's Ariadne's party," Arthur replies, and then adds in a fit of wickedness, " _Stop calling, stop calling, I don't wanna talk anymore._ "

" _I left my head and my heart on the dance floor_ ," they all three warble together, and Yusuf groans and takes a very large drink.

"Dance with me, Eames!" Ariadne demands, and he gallantly obliges, though in point of fact dancing with her involves an awful lot of helping her stay on her feet. Arthur makes a hazy mental note to force some water down her before she passes out. She and Eames collapse on the couch with Arthur when the shuffle on Ariadne's iPod moves on. Ariadne is warm and smells of rum and vanilla, and her hair tickles Arthur's arm.

"Okay," she says, as seriously as she can manage, "never have I ever smoked a cigarette."

"Never Have I Ever? Really?" Arthur asks, but he drinks, and so do the other two.

"Never have I ever drawn dicks for my sketch assignment just to piss off my professor," Arthur says with a smirk, and Eames drinks. For a long time.

"To be fair," he says, over the others' snickers, "it was a very _good_ drawing. Shading and all. He was mostly angry that he had to give me a decent mark."

"D'you still have it?" Ariadne asks, and Eames grins.

"In my black sketchbook, yeah."

She grins. "Awesome. Your turn."

"Hm. Never have I ever followed an assignment completely."

"But never have I ever failed out of art school," Arthur says mildly, and drinks. Eames chuckles.

"What can I say, darling, formal education wasn't for me. And it's not your turn."

"I know. Was making a point. Yusuf?"

"Never have I ever banged a dude," Yusuf says immediately, and the bottle passes between Ariadne, Eames, and then Arthur.

"Aha!" Ariadne exclaims, pointing at Arthur, "I knew it!"

"It's not a secret," Arthur answers, a little baffled, "you just never asked. I'm queer."

"You mean bi?" Eames asks, and Arthur shakes his head. Bad idea– the room spins.

"I mean queer. Bi, it's not... flexible. There's a gender binary in it, right, but queer, that can be whatever."

"It's vague."

"Exactly." He still feels dizzy. "Should go to bed before we pass out," he adds. There's a murmur of agreement, and Yusuf drains the end of the bottle before they all stagger off to their beds to sleep.

* * *

"Oh my God," Ariadne groans, "I feel like death. I feel like I've been run over by a train. I feel like the world is exploding around me. Make it stop."

"I left water and vitamins and advil on your table," Arthur murmurs. He had woken earlier, long enough to throw up, down some water and medicine of his own, and eat a couple pieces of toast before crawling back into bed. Ariadne reaches a hand out, finds the water, and sits up only enough to take the pills and a long drink before sinking back down on her pillow.

"Thanks Arthur."

"Welcome."

"'m glad we don't have a window in here."

"Me too."

There is a rustle as she turns on her side and curls up into a ball, watching Arthur through slitted eyes. "Have you been with a lot of guys?"

"I'm impressed you remember that," he says, because he knows how much she drank. Hell, he's impressed _he_ remembers it. "Not that many."

"More guys than girls?"

"About the same."

"Huh. Would you have sex with me?"

"You're my roommate," he says, which isn't entirely a no, but it's close enough. She lets it be, anyway, to ask instead, "Would you have sex with Eames?"

"He's my housemate."

"So? I'd have sex with him, theoretically. Except there's someone else, but. I'm saying, he's kinda hot."

"If you're into that."

"You're totally into that," Ariadne answers. "I'm going back to sleep until the drums in my brain stop," she adds as an afterthought, then burrows deeper under her blankets.

Arthur hopes to whatever higher power may be out there that she doesn't pass any of this conversation on to Eames.

* * *

"So Ariadne says you have the hots for me."

Arthur counts to ten in his head. "Ariadne likes to stretch the truth. Also, I'm trying to work."

"I know, you always do your background to "Stay Loose." It's just background," Eames says, and flops down on the couch. "What did you tell her, then, that made her tell me that?"

"Ariadne," Arthur says coolly, "seems to be under the impression that, because I've been known to have sex with men, I must want to have sex with you."

"Well, that has been my experience with most blokes," Eames says with a grin. Arthur is holding one of his paintbrushes in his teeth while he picks another, but he rolls his eyes with great feeling.

"I could never sleep with anyone who has such an appalling lack of taste," he says once he can talk again, and applies a swath of warm, blush-colored paint to his canvas. It's Eames' turn to roll his eyes.

"I like the classics as much as anyone," Eames protests, "but I'm not wedded to them for my own style. Art is about expression and experimentation because _life_ is about those things. It'd be right boring if we all tried to paint like Caravaggio."

"Who said anything about Caravaggio?" Arthur replies. "You listen to Lady Gaga. You even know all the B-sides."

"And don't think I don't know that you secretly adore "Telephone," you always mouth the words when you think no one's looking," Eames says gleefully.

"I do no such thing."

"You _bob your head_ ," he continues, "and if you're standing your _hips move._ "

In that moment, Arthur truly loathes Eames.

"Slander," he says, "will you please let me work?"

"If you sleep with me, I won't tell everyone that you like a _pop song_."

Arthur turns and stares at him. "Are you seriously blackmailing me with "Telephone" to get in my pants?"

Eames pretends to consider for a moment. "Yes."

Arthur debates this: his indie cred or his morals.

"Can I at least get to a stopping point and clean up my paints first?" Arthur's never had too much by way of morals anyway.

Eames grins. "I guess I can let you do that. I'll be in my room."

Arthur takes his time; if Eames is going to blackmail him into sex, he's damn well going to make the bastard wait as long as he can possibly get away with. Eventually, though, even Arthur is forced to admit to himself that his background is pretty much perfect, exactly what he had envisioned, and he really doesn't have any excuse to linger. He cleans his brushes thoroughly though, and takes his time putting the tubes of paint back neatly in the container labeled "Arthur's Paints: DO NOT TOUCH!"

Eames is lying in a suggestive sprawl when Arthur walks in, and Arthur privately admits that it's pretty damn appealing, especially since Eames is only wearing a pair of paint-stained jeans and, okay, Ariadne might have been right, Eames is utterly fuckable.

"I am absolutely not having sex with you if you don't turn this crap off."

"You don't wanna take a ride on my disco stick?" Eames rejoins with a grin, but he reaches over and starts fiddling with the controls on his iPod. "How about "SexyBack?""

Arthur reaches over and turns it off, then straddles Eames. "Leave the music alone."

"Well." Eames' hands come up to cradle Arthur's narrow hips, thumbs pressing at the bones, "when you put it like that." He pulls him down, and then there are hot, full lips on Arthur's and neither of them are thinking about pop music anymore. Arthur makes a low noise that he swears is _not_ a moan when Eames does something interesting with his tongue and grinds his hips up, rubbing them together through their jeans.

"Too many clothes," Eames growls, and tugs Arthur's shirt off, then pops the button on his jeans. Peeling him out of them proves difficult– "You and your fucking tight jeans–" but once they're kicked to the floor Arthur is naked, and Eames rolls them over so he's on top.

"No pants? Dirty, Arthur, I'm impressed."

"How the hell would they fit under those jeans?" Arthur points out, and makes quick work of the rest of Eames' clothing. He's broad and solid and muscled and both of their cocks are dripping already, slick when Eames wraps his hand around them both and starts jerking them off with rough, lustful strokes.

"Good?" he purrs, and Arthur manages a breathy laugh.

"Yeah." He thrusts up and curls his own hand around Eames' as he leans to kiss him again. "Harder."

They rut together desperately, sweaty and hot and breaths gasping in each others' mouths, and with one particularly perfect twist of Eames' wrist Arthur is gone, spilling over their hands and stomachs with a desperate moan and feeling the heat of Eames' come moments later as Eames groans into the crook of Arthur's neck.

The door clicks open just as Eames is licking Arthur's hand clean, eyes alight with filthy promises.

"Oh my _God_ ," Yusuf shouts, and the door slams shut. "I'll never be able to unsee that!"

Arthur snickers into Eames' pillow. "Maybe we should see about you swapping with Ariadne."

Eames blinks, and then he smiles warmly. "Maybe we should."

* * *

"Look at this, they love you," Arthur says, and Ariadne smiles. Her cheeks are a little pink, and her eyes are bright and happy.

"I'd never have gotten this far if it weren't for Professor Cobb."

Arthur smiles knowingly. "He's very good."

"Shut up, Arthur, I know about Eames."

"Is that so."

"Uh huh. I'll swap rooms with him, I don't mind. He's wanted you forever, you know."

Arthur smiles and kisses the top of her head. "Listen, Ari, I have to get back home. Got something to work on, otherwise I'd stay. Congratulations on the show." He nudges her. "Go on and talk to Cobb, then. I'll see you later."

Ariadne swats him on the shoulder. "Bye, Arthur."

The apartment is quiet when Arthur gets back since the other three are still at Ariadne's show, and so Arthur changes out of his nice clothes and into jeans and a tee he doesn't mind getting paint on. The soothing sounds of bands no one has heard of fill the room, and Arthur settles in with his oils.

He's been working on this painting in increments since he and Eames first fell into bed together, but only when no one else was around. It's made it difficult to make progress on, but not impossible, and Arthur's pretty sure he can get it more or less done by the time they're back from the show tonight.

It's a portrait of Eames. Eames lying on his stomach on the bed, sheets tangled and puddling around him and warm dawn light through the window illuminating his skin in red and gold and bronze, his hair soft and rumpled. It's much more intimate than it is sexual, and that more than anything is the reason Arthur has kept it hidden; he is always so very careful about which of his feelings he is willing to put on show, and the tenderness for Eames that catches him at unexpected moments is still new and terrifying.

It will look nice in their room, hanging over their two beds pushed together. It will be dry by the time they move things around tomorrow.

Arthur is just putting his paints away when Eames saunters into the apartment. "Ari said you were back here working on something."

"I was," Arthur agrees, "but it's finished now. I'll show you later."

"Just as well," Eames says, "because I've got other plans for you."

"Do you really?" Arthur replies, casually drifting in the direction of his room. "And what do these plans entail?"

"You, naked."

"Right."

"And me. And my drawing pens."

"Kinky," Arthur says, and Eames laughs.

"I'm not doing that to my pens, they're expensive."

"You say that now." Arthur smiles and disappears into his bedroom, and Eames, with a fond shake of his head, gathers his pens and his sketchbook and follows.

He's always wanted to draw Arthur.


	2. Doctors

II. _There's still a little bit of you laced with my doubt._

Arthur is talking in earnest tones with Dr. Cobb's pretty young fellow when Eames spots him. They're heading from the direction of the psych ward, though, so he doesn't read anything into it when Arthur puts a hand on her shoulder. The psych ward can shake anyone up, especially anyone who knows Cobb. Eames had visited only once; having Mal shriek that he wasn't real was an experience he wasn't anxious to repeat. He had liked her a great deal back when he met her, the rising star in psychiatry– Dr. Mal Cobb was kind and patient and insightful, and a perfect match for her neurologist husband. Quite the couple they had been, before. Before Mal went insane. He doesn't know how Arthur can stand it.

Arthur and the girl– Ariadne, though he can't recall her surname– part ways, and Eames takes the opportunity to fall into step with the other man.

"Arthur," he greets him, slinging a companionable arm around Arthur's stiff, narrow shoulders. Arthur shrugs him off.

"Eames," he answers coolly, "what are you doing?"

"Following you, obviously."

Arthur looks unimpressed. "Don't you have patients to be beautifying?"

"You wound me," Eames answers, "making my profession sound so horribly shallow. You have to _know_ a person to be able to give them their dreams."

Arthur doesn't seem convinced. "You have to know brain function to do do neurosurgery. Which, incidentally, I'm scheduled for in–" he glances at his watch– "fifteen minutes."

"I'll walk you there," Eames says with his most charming smile. "You do know that becoming a plastic surgeon requires some of the highest exam scores in our profession."

"So you never cease reminding me."

"Well you do so love brains, darling."

Arthur groans at the pun. "Seriously. Don't you have work to do?"

"Not for another half hour. You're wound tighter than usual today, you know."

"I'm about to do highly dangerous neurosurgery on one of the most powerful men in the world. I'm a little tense."

"Fischer is today?" He'd heard about the case, of course– Fischer was heir to one of the most powerful energy conglomerates in the world, and Cobb and Arthur had been tasked with operating on what every other doctor agreed was an inoperable tumor. It was career suicide.

"Yeah." Arthur lets out a breath. "I'll be in there for a while."

"Why are you even doing this? Any sane doctor would refuse to even try operating."

"That's what _I_ said," Arthur agrees, "but Cobb insisted. Or more accurately, Mr. Saito insisted."

"Ah." Saito owned the hospital, and was not a man to be trifled with. "Well... good luck then." He squeezes Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur manages a strained little smile.

"Thanks," he replies. "Listen, I've got to get ready, but I appreciate the good wishes."

"Anytime, love."

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Go back to work, Dr. Eames," he says, and heads into surgery.

Cobb is there already, and Fischer is lying on the table. Cobb acknowledges Arthur with a slight nod, and doesn't stop his low, reassuring words to Fischer. Arthur hovers around the periphery checking his equipment while Cobb explains the procedure again and tries to be as supportive as possible, and Ariadne comes in while he is lining his tools up in a tidy little row.

"This is Dr. Ariadne Kallis, she'll be observing," Cobb introduces her, and Ariadne smiles at him warmly. "I believe you've already met Dr. Savage?"

"Terrible name for a doctor, I know," Arthur says wryly, "just call me Arthur. I'll be your surgeon today."

Fischer nods and swallows hard, blue eyes darting between them. Nervous.

"We're going to take care of you," Cobb promises, and motions for Yusuf, the anesthesiologist. "Just trust me."

Arthur doesn't know how Cobb can be so sure.

* * *

Eames doesn't see any of them again until late the next day, when Cobb's fellow stumbles out of the neurology department looking exhausted.

"You look asleep on your feet, pet," Eames remarks, and she smiles wanly.

"Been in surgery forever," she says, "Dr. Eames, isn't it? You're friends with Arthur."

"Friends might be a strong word," Eames allows, though he'd known Arthur back before he chose his specialty. "And you're...?"

"Dr. Kallis. Ariadne is fine, though, please."

"Ariadne. Come on, let's get you a crap coffee before you fall over," he says, steering her toward the cafeteria. "You were with Cobb, yeah? How did it go?"

"Too soon to tell, Cobb says," she replies, fishing in her pocket for money. "We almost lost him on the table." She feeds the vending machine a couple dollars for a watery coffee, and they sit down. "I thought we might need to get a surgeon in for Arthur, he nearly had a heart attack."

"He takes his work very seriously," Eames replies, which is something of an understatement. Arthur isn't the best neurosurgeon around for nothing– the man lives his job. Arthur could have gone into any specialty he wanted, the man is brilliant, but he is a perfect fit for what he does, with his precise surgeon's fingers.

"No kidding. Huh, speak of the devil," she adds as Arthur and Cobb walk into the room. Ariadne waves them over, Arthur cradling a steaming cup of coffee like his precious firstborn and Cobb already biting into a sandwich as he walks. They sink into the uncomfortable plastic chairs wordlessly; both look drained, even Arthur, who usually doesn't show it.

"Long workday, huh," Eames murmurs, and Cobb sighs.

"You can say that again."

"My hands are all cramped," Arthur agrees, and swallows a large gulp of his coffee. He makes a face– Arthur usually avoids the hospital coffee like the plague.

"Any of you need a ride home?" Eames asks. "You know the statistics on driving tired as well as I do."

"I'll be fine," Cobb promises, but Arthur murmurs, "Actually, that might be a good idea. My car's here though."

"I can drive you back. Or you can get a taxi. We'll work it out once you can string a conscious thought together, yeah?"

Arthur smiles, exhausted but genuine. "Yeah. Let's go, I need sleep."

Ariadne and Cobb watch them go, Cobb with a knowing look in his eyes. "Only a matter of time, those two."

"They'd be a cute couple," she says, smiling, and drains the last of her coffee. "I'd better get going. See you later?"

"Of course. Go get some rest, Ariadne."

* * *

"If you want," Eames offers as they get into the car, "you could just crash at my place and we can carpool tomorrow."

"Subtlety was never your forte, was it?"

Eames smiles. "I have a guest room, Arthur."

Arthur considers it. "Okay."

Eames hadn't really expected him to agree. Arthur drowses in the passenger seat, and they swing by his place to pick up a change of clothes for him before continuing on to Eames' house. They don't live far apart.

"Nice place," Arthur remarks as he steps inside– it's comfortably unpretentious, inviting, and makes him want to nestle into bed even more than he did already.

"Thanks." Eames grins at him. "Sure you don't want to share? Maybe a prostate exam before you go to sleep?"

"You really need to work on your pick-up lines," Arthur answers, but he leans forward with a slight sway and brushes a kiss to the corner of Eames' mouth. "Perhaps another time, Dr. Eames."

"Goodnight, then, darling," Eames murmurs, smiling. "Guest room is through that door."

Eames rustles around in the kitchen for something to eat, listening to the quiet sounds of Arthur readying himself for bed. It's oddly soothing, the noises of another person– he hasn't shared his space with anyone in a long time. Not since he left England.

Eames peeks into the guest room before he retires as well; Arthur is curled up under the blankets, his breathing deep and peaceful. A curl of dark hair falls across his brow, and Eames smiles and leaves him to his rest.

He is woken in the dead of night by the shrill ring of his cell phone on the nightstand, and gropes for it groggily. "Eames," he answers, voice scratchy, but the voice on the other end has him up and pulling clothes from his closet in seconds. "Yeah, be right there. Okay. Okay, yeah. Bye."

Arthur, sleepy and messy-haired, pokes his head out of the guest room as Eames is pulling on his shoes. "What–"

"Call from the hospital. Emergency reconstructive surgery. Gotta go!"

And Eames is out the door.

* * *

"How is he?" Ariadne asks, and Cobb looks up as she walks into the room.

"Vitals are stable," Cobb answers, "we won't know much else until he's awake, and that will be a while."

Ariadne nods and sits down in the chair next to him. "Why did you take this patient? I mean... we're lucky he even lived through it."

Cobb smiles, wan and a little bitter. "My wife would have wanted me to try. If the patient's going to die of inoperable cancer anyway, I should at least attempt the surgery. Mal... she was always trying to do all she could for patients, pushing the limits to try and do the most good."

"I'm sorry," Ariadne says softly, "I know she... Arthur told me about her." A pause. "She must have been beautiful. Before."

"She was. She _is_ ," he corrects himself, "but she's not getting better. There's nothing– I can't do that for her."

Ariadne reaches over and squeezes his hand. "I really don't know what to say."

"I don't think there's much of anything to be said." Cobb sighs and gets to his feet. "Keep an eye on Fischer for me, I have to see another patient."

"Of course. Hey, listen, um. If you ever need anything, or want to talk..." Ariadne shrugs. "I'm around."

He smiles slightly. "Thanks," he tells her, and she watches him go.

* * *

"You look beat," Arthur remarks. He's sitting in the waiting room, flipping through the latest Neurology journal when Eames at last locks up his office to head out for the day.

"Been here since I got that call," he answers, dropping into the seat next to Arthur. "Burn victim. Poor bloke needed massive skin grafts, it was bad."

"Is he going to make it?"

Eames nods. "He should pull through. He was stable."

"Glad to hear it."

"Yeah. What about Fischer?"

"Too soon to tell how it went. He'll live; we don't know yet how much damage the surgery might have done."

"Brain damage is better than death, I suppose," Eames says, and Arthur sighs.

"I don't know if I agree, personally. But it's not my decision, regardless– he wanted the procedure, my job is just to do it to the best of my ability."

"You do value your intellect," Eames agrees, "and don't get me wrong, it's a very attractive quality. _Very_. But it's not your only one."

Arthur smiles, bringing out the dimples in his cheeks, the little crinkles at the corners of his chocolate eyes. "Thank you," he says, then, "seriously, you do look tired. Want a ride?"

Eames smirks. "Oh, do I ever."

Arthur rolls his eyes, but his smile hasn't gone. "Come on, then."

Arthur pulls the car up to his own place without comment, but Eames isn't surprised. They've danced around each other long enough. Arthur has what's doubtless a pricey apartment, furnished with clean, modern lines. It's lovely and impeccably neat in the way that suggests that Arthur spends most of his time at the hospital instead of at home. It's both beautiful and a little sad, Arthur spending so much time saving other people's lives that he doesn't have one of his own.

Arthur locks the door behind him and hangs his jacket up, then turns and slides his arms around Eames' waist.

"How tired are you?" he asks. His tone isn't quite innocent, but Eames knows Arthur would back off if he really wanted it, if he were really that exhausted. It's part of Arthur's charm, that he's such a gentleman.

Eames has waited long enough. "Not that tired," he says, and Arthur leans in and kisses him, sure and searching and focused, everything that Arthur himself is. Eames reaches up and tangles a hand in that perfectly-slick hair, presses their faces close and learns the narrow line of his mouth, the clever hot swipe of his tongue. It comes as no surprise that Arthur is a good kisser.

They move to the couch, almost tripping over one another, and somehow Arthur has Eames out of his shirt before Eames has finished the buttons on Arthur's.

"Nice ink," he says against Eames' mouth, and Eames smiles and nips at Arthur's bottom lip.

"Yeah, you like?"

"Oh, I like a lot of things about you, Eames," he says, and then the little minx is kneeling on the floor between Eames' spread legs and prying open belt and fly to pull his cock out. Eames makes a sound in his throat as Arthur curls those precise neurosurgeon's fingers around his cock.

"You clean?" Arthur asks, and Eames manages to focus enough to answer.

"Yeah. Tested at the start of the month."

"Nothing unprotected since?"

"Nothing."

"Good," Arthur says, and takes Eames' cock in his mouth. Eames groans and tries not to push up into the wet heat, but it's incredibly hard, and Arthur can do things with his tongue that soon reduce Eames to an incoherent bundle of raw nerves. By the time he takes him deeper, deep enough that Eames hits the back of his throat, it is too much.

"Gonna–" he tries to warn, and then he's coming, his orgasm crashing through him. Arthur doesn't pull back; he takes it all, swallowing around Eames, then pulls back and licks his lips, catlike, dark eyes gleaming.

"Good?"

"Amazing. When I can breathe I'll return the favor."

Arthur laughs. "Take your time," he says, climbing up on the couch with Eames, "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

Eames tastes himself in Arthur's mouth when they kiss.

* * *

"Hey, Mal." She is calm today, drugged up to the eyeballs. Not very lucid– she is seldom lucid anymore– but calm. They hadn't needed to restrain her for his visit, today, though part of Cobb is afraid that they'll need to by the end.

"Dom."

He sits down opposite her. "I had a big surgery with Arthur," he says, soothing voice, neutral talk of work. "A brain tumor everyone thought was inoperable. But we did it, Mal, we got the cancer and he still has normal brain function. It's probably the biggest moment of my career."

"And Arthur's," Mal says, indulgent, like she's playing along with a child's game, "he must be so proud, our dear Arthur."

"He is. He's seeing someone, maybe he'll come and tell you about it. He and Dr. Eames finally got together, after all that flirting. They seem happy."

"Eames," she repeats, eyes hazy, "I never see him. I see you and I see Arthur but never him."

"I think you make Eames uncomfortable."

"He is my mind, he cannot be uncomfortable."

Cobb sighs. "Maybe Arthur will bring him."

"Arthur. Arthur must be happy."

"He is," Cobb assures her.

"Are you?"

"Me?" Cobb drops his gaze. "I miss you, Mal. I miss you more than I can bear. But there's a woman, a neurologist, and she's so kind. You would have liked her, Mal."

"Do you know what it is to be a lover?" Mal demands, "To be half of a whole?"

"I had that with you, once," Cobb whispers, "and I keep coming back for you, Mal, but I can't spend my life in limbo waiting for something to happen."

"You don't understand!" she cries, not angry so much as frustrated, "It's not real! We could have gotten out, we could have been free, but you betrayed me! You brought me here and locked me up and nothing is real. None of it's real. _You're_ not real, you're not my lover."

"I'm your other half," Cobb says, vision blurring with unshed tears, and Mal is beautiful and terrible and small in her hospital white. Her hair has grown long, and her eyes are too old and too haunted.

"You're waiting for a train," Mal says, "a train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you can't be sure. But it doesn't matter."

"I can't take that train with you, Mal," he whispers, "I'm so sorry."

"Send me Arthur next time," Mal tells him, "you make me so sad."

"Believe me when I say it's mutual," Cobb replies, and when he gets up he kisses her brow. Her skin is sticky with sweat.

"You'll wake up one day," Mal says as he goes. Like she's certain, like this is just the trial she must endure for everything to be all right again.

There are tears making tracks down his cheeks when he leaves the psych ward, and Ariadne slips her tiny hand into his and asks nothing. The sun has set.

"Want to grab some dinner?" she asks, and he nods.

"Yeah. Yeah, that would... that'd be good."

Ariadne smiles up at him, a little sad, and squeezes his hand.

"I'm in no hurry," she promises, and digs her keys out of her purse, "so take your time."

"Do you know what it is to be a lover?" Cobb asks her. "To be half of a whole?"

"No," she says, "but I'm willing to find out."

They get in the car and drive.


	3. Chefs

III. _It's all about the know-how, all just a matter of taste._

"Gentlemen–"

"Ahem."

"–and lady," Saito amends, "I do hope you're prepared to produce something extraordinary tonight."

"We always do," Cobb assures him, "after all, I am the best extractor of flavor."

Yusuf doesn't quite manage not to roll his eyes.

"Can I ask why the group talk?" Arthur puts in. "Customers are happy, business is booming, and it's early."

"Arthur," Cobb reproves in a murmur, but Saito shakes his head.

"Your sous-chef is quite right," he agrees, "but Fischer is hell-bent on running us out of business. Now, I have on reliable authority that one of tonight's reservations is a _very_ influential critic, so I expect great things." A nod. "You have work to do; I'll leave you to it."

He departs, and the chefs glance at one another.

"I don't know why he doesn't just buy the paper or the magazine or whatever," Ariadne remarks, "he's rich enough."

"Inception was a risky business venture," Arthur answers, "high-concept modern, set menu of small plates, limited seating? A restaurant like that is either world-class or a complete flop. He has something to prove."

"The let's not be a flop," Cobb says decisively. Arthur flips open a small notebook and pulls out the pen tucked behind his ear.

"Menu?" he asks.

"The king crab, definitely," Cobb replies, "that was a hit."

"The one we did last week, with the plum and fennel?"

"Mmm," Ariadne interjects happily, "that _was_ good, I wanted it to last forever."

"The lamb," Arthur adds, "and the sugarcane shrimp."

"The black truffle bite," Eames interjects, "and the bacon and apple, everyone loves bacon."

"The cucumber and the frozen lemon fizz for palate cleansers," Cobb finishes. "Dessert, Ariadne?"

Their pastry chef grins. She's a young, energetic thing, fresh from culinary school and utterly brilliant. "It's gonna involve berries," she says, "whatever kind take my fancy today. Other than that... I'll let you know."

Arthur makes an irritated noise but doesn't argue. "Let's get to it, then." En masse, they head for the kitchen– all save their sommelier, Yusuf, who makes for the cellar.

"The Fischer King," Arthur mutters darkly. Cobb is barking instructions, and Arthur is cleaning shrimp. He hates cleaning shrimp, fiddly little bastards– if Eames wasn't minding a rather temperamental sauce, Arthur would have pawned the job off on him. All this fuss because Saito felt threatened by the popular new fusion place down the street, like there weren't plenty of customers to go around. _Businessmen._

"What about it?"

Arthur glances up; he hadn't thought anyone would hear him over Cobb.

"You'd think it was evil personified in restaurant form, the way Saito carries on."

"Well, I'm pretty sure their salmon is made with dark magic," Eames says thoughtfully, adding a pinch of salt to his sauce. "Also champagne and some dill. But mostly dark magic, because how the hell else could they get it to taste that incredible?"

"You've been dining in the den of the enemy, Eames?"

"Reconnaissance," he says airily. "Finish cleaning your shrimp, darling."

Arthur throws a vein at his head.

* * *

The kitchen of Inception is buzzing with activity when Saito steps through the door during the dinner rush. Ariadne is constructing beautiful, elaborate desserts at her station, delicate strawberry confections floating on snowy drifts of foam like buildings perched on mountains.

"I hope those taste as good as they look," Saito says, "the critic we aren't supposed to know about is here. Table two."

"Consider it taken care of," Arthur says. "Enjoy your evening, Mr. Saito."

Saito is smart enough not to interfere further with the organized chaos that is Dominic Cobb's kitchen and leaves them to it. Cobb fiddles with the presentation of a serving of the lamb plate, shifting the sprig of rosemary so minutely it hasn't discernibly moved at all, and Arthur tries not to let himself feel too annoyed at the nitpicking. Cobb is the head chef, and he can nitpick Arthur's rosemary placement if he wants to.

It's still annoying.

"Send that out while it's still hot!" Cobb instructs sharply, and Eames and Arthur exchange glances of resignation. Well, resignation from Arthur, and resignation seasoned with a generous dash of amusement from Eames.

"I'm going to do the rounds," Cobb announces to the kitchen at large as the night is winding down. It's not unusual for Cobb to chat up the patrons at the end of the evening, but tonight it is a given– they have an impression to make.

Eames pauses to peer out into the dining room once he has a moment to catch his breath.

"She's _hot_."

"Hm?"

"The critic." Eames shuts the door and lets out a low whistle. "Maybe I chose the wrong career. Maybe I should have been a journalist. So I could work with other hot journalists."

"You're dyslexic," Arthur reminds him, but does indulge in a curious glance outside. "She is pretty, you're right."

"Of course I'm right, I have excellent aesthetic tastes."

"That's bullshit," Yusuf says. Eames rolls his eyes.

"Shouldn't you be in the cellar with the wines?"

"Shouldn't you be cooking instead of checking out food critics?"

"Like that would stop him," Arthur says dryly. Yusuf nods agreeably, and Eames makes a rude gesture in their general direction.

"Last desserts just went out," Ariadne announces, beginning to tidy her station. "Shouldn't Cobb be back?"

"Weren't you listening?" Eames asks, and Ariadne gives him a blank look because no, in fact, she seldom listens to ambient conversation when she's focusing on constructing one of her desserts, which aren't so much pastry as architectural miracles or some sort of modern art. Eames sighs. "The food critic," he reiterates patiently, "he's out there talking to her, and she's really, really good-looking."

"Oooh, you think he'll get a date?" Ariadne asks, and goes to the door to look.

"Is that even allowed? Food critics dating chefs?" Arthur wonders aloud. Eames shrugs.

"If I were a food critic, I'd _only_ date chefs. No one else would meet expectations cooking at home. I mean, imagine if you were a food critic and you married someone who couldn't make and didn't understand good food. Disaster."

"If I were a food critic I would never marry someone who didn't appreciate food," Arthur replies. "Irreconcilably different outlooks on life, namely: the right one, and the wrong one."

Yusuf snorts. "Pretentious bastard."

"You smell wine for a living, Yusuf," Arthur points out. "You know about vintages and notes and you do that swirling thing. Your profession basically defines pretentious."

"My profession is _drinking_ for a living. It's the dream of university students everywhere."

"Boys," Ariadne reproves absently, "shush and clean up."

* * *

"She's incredible," Cobb sighs over the tomatoes at the market, and Arthur and Eames exchange glances. Mal's article had come out a week ago, glowing with praise for Inception, and normally a review like that (and Saito's attendant smug pleasure) would have been the focus of Cobb's obsessive mind. But Cobb has been on three dates with Mal, and he is _smitten_.

Arthur is happy for him, he really is. Cobb is his friend as well as his boss, and he deserves to be deliriously happy with his French goddess of the food world who is clever and kind and knows all the best restaurants in town. Arthur just wishes he didn't have to hear about her _all the time_.

"You've said," Arthur replies, voice carefully neutral, not that Cobb is really listening to him anyway. He's busy rhapsodizing, and Arthur lets him wander ahead; Eames seems to have had the same idea, and they both hang back while Cobb moves on toward the onions.

"Hoping they elope and have done with it?" Eames asks, and Arthur smothers a laugh.

"It's nice that he's in love," Arthur replies, and instead of coming out mildly condescending the words have a tinge of wistfulness at the edges that he would sooner die than admit to. Eames pauses, looking at him– Eames doesn't miss much.

"Have you ever been in love?" he asks, and Arthur shrugs slightly and keeps his gaze determinedly focused on the produce.

"Sure," he says, "but it's never worked out. Or maybe I never really have, and that's why it didn't. It doesn't matter either way at this point."

Eames reaches over and squeezes Arthur's hand, then just as quickly lets it go. "Come over on our night off," he says, and Arthur looks at him for a long moment, eyes a little wide, a little uncertain.

"All right," he says at last, and the matter is closed.

* * *

Eames has a pleasantly cluttered sort of apartment that Arthur can't help but like. It's the kind of place that feels instantly comfortable, furnished with an invitingly squashy couch and chair that beg to be curled up in. There's a bookshelf jammed to overflowing with everything from literature to philosophy to cookbooks to photography, and the rack of CDs and DVDs is similarly wide-ranging and full.

The smell of basil from the kitchen pervades the place, and Arthur inhales deeply and can't help but smile. Basil always reminds him of home, his mother's herb garden in the summertime. Eames disappears to the kitchen after letting Arthur in, and Arthur trails after him without thinking about it– the kitchen, after all, has long been his natural habitat, the place he's most comfortable, and it really does smell wonderful.

"You're a guest," Eames tells him, "you don't help with the cooking."

Arthur smiles at him and moves closer to see what he's doing. "Doesn't mean I can't keep you company."

"Watch over my shoulder and nitpick, you mean," Eames teases. "I'm not doing anything fancy. Pesto."

"Mm," Arthur hums, "I love pesto."

"I know."

"You do?"

Eames grins at him. "Sure. I've seen the way you always stick your nose in anything with basil like it's your drug of choice. Stands to reason you'd like pesto."

"No one else ever notices," Arthur says, oddly overwhelmed that Eames had.

"I always notice, Arthur. Taste for me?" He spoons up a little bit of it, and Arthur closes his eyes blissfully.

" _Mmm_." He swallows and licks his lips, and when he opens his eyes Eames is staring at him with a hunger that has nothing to do with wanting food.

"Let me taste," he says, voice husky, and leans in and kisses Arthur, licking into his mouth. Arthur shudders pleasantly in Eames' arms and flicks the stove off.

"You can finish dinner off later," he murmurs against Eames' lips and feels Eames smile.

"If I'd known you were so easy to seduce, Arthur–"

"Shut up," Arthur says, and pulls them both down on the floor. "Shut up and fuck me."

They move together on the hard tile floor, tugging each other's clothes off without finesse, and the olive oil is the closest thing to hand by way of lubricant.

"I'll never be able to look at olive oil the same way," Arthur pants, arching back against Eames, who chuckles throatily against his neck.

"Extra virgin," he mutters, and Arthur barks out a laugh.

"Only the oil, I'm afraid. Now _move_."

"You're tight enough for it," Eames groans, and obliges. Neither of them lasts long; it is a quick and dirty fuck on a kitchen floor, but after it is over and Arthur is letting the tile cool his overheated skin he feels more deeply content than he has in a long time. Eames kisses at his neck, his throat, his cheeks, his lips, the tip of his nose.

"Been wanting to do that since I met you," he admits, and Arthur pulls him in and kisses him properly, a long wet slide of lips and tongues that goes on until his stomach growls. They break apart, laughing, and Eames bends to kiss Arthur's belly, too, nuzzling at the dusting of dark hair below his navel before he gets up and turns the stove back on.

They eat at the tiny kitchen table without bothering to get dressed, and Arthur rolls his eyes but is secretly charmed when Eames feeds him a few bites off his fork.

Arthur stays the night.

* * *

"So this is your domain, hm?" Mal says, looking around. "It's nice."

Cobb smiles at her; his hand rests on the small of her back. "I'm glad you like it. I'd have brought you later, but it gets awfully busy in here."

"I imagine," she agrees, and starts poking around carefully, not disturbing the order of things, just seeing what's there. She knows a good professional kitchen when she sees one, and Inception's has some particularly interesting gadgets for their more out-there molecular gastronomy dishes. Cobb watches her drift around the room; she is wearing a dark blue dress today that flutters around her knees and makes her wide eyes look particularly beautiful, sparkling blue.

"You're so amazing," he says without thinking about it, and she turns to him and smiles, a laugh on her lips.

"Take off the chef's coat, Dom," she purrs, and he swallows hard and does so as fast as he can, and Mal steps closer, running her hands down his chest.

"I want you to take me," she tells him, "right here."

"Here?" His voice is a little higher pitched than usual, and she smiles silkily and nods.

"Here," she agrees, and unzips her dress and lets it pool to the floor.

And, well, who is he to refuse that kind of invitation? Mal's lush breasts are almost spilling over the lacy half-cups of her bra, and she has pale, perfect skin and hips that just beg to be grabbed. Cobb presses her up against the counter and kisses her fiercely, and Mal makes a low sound in her throat and slides her hands between them to work open his jeans and push them and his boxers down his legs. Cobb groans and thrusts against her; the satin of her panties is already wet, and he tugs them down impatiently.

"Dom," she whines, arching, and wraps her legs tight around his waist as he pushes into her slick heat with one swift thrust. He groans and presses closer and buries his face in the curve of her neck– her perfume smells like ripe apples.

"Oh my _God_ ," Arthur says from the doorway, in tones of deep horror, "health code violations don't even begin to cover this."

Cobb and Mal scramble to cover themselves while Arthur pointedly doesn't look at them, expression disapproving. Eames just rolls his eyes.

"This from someone who got fucked on the kitchen floor last night with olive oil for lube," he points out, and Arthur turns an interesting shade of pink.

"Eames!"

"I so did not need to know that," Cobb grumbles, and Arthur glares at him accusingly.

"And I didn't need to walk into work and see _that_ , but it looks like neither of us are getting our wish today."

"You usually don't get in for another half hour–"

"We caught the earlier subway today. Also that doesn't change the fact that you were screwing in the kitchen."

"And apparently so were you."

" _Home_ kitchen," Arthur stresses, "not– that's _my station_ , Dom!" He sounds borderline hysterical, and Eames is working very hard not to snicker.

"I'll clean," Cobb promises.

"Damn right you will." Arthur turns on his heel, stalking out of the kitchen, and Eames follows, chuckling to himself.

Mal wanders out into the dining room a few minutes later, looking remarkably put-together and composed.

"Sorry about that," she says, "not, perhaps, the best introduction. I'm Mal." She extends a hand, and laughs when Arthur hesitates. "I washed," she promises, and Arthur relaxes and shakes it.

"Arthur, I'm Dom's sous-chef. Have a seat."

She slides gracefully into one of the chairs at their table. "He's told me about you."

"Worrying," Arthur says dryly, and she clicks her tongue at him. "Good things," she promises, and offers her hand to Eames as well. They shake.

"Eames," he says simply by way of introduction, "I like you already."

"Even though your lover does not?"

"Wait, hang on," Arthur protests, "I don't not like you. I don't even know you."

"The kitchen was my idea," Mal answers, and Arthur grimaces faintly.

"Well. Maybe you shouldn't have told me that."

Eames snickers. "Don't mind him, he's very uptight about his station. One time I borrowed his juicer without mentioning it and, well, let's just say he _still_ hasn't forgiven me."

"I needed it and it was gone," Arthur says, unrepentant. Cobb appears, hesitant, and Mal gets to her feet.

"Lovely to meet you, gentlemen. Excuse me," she says, and she and Cobb slip off toward the bathrooms. It's an improvement, Arthur supposes, returning to the kitchen to find his station scrubbed, as it should be, within an inch of its life. _Still._

Eames picks up a particularly large zucchini and makes an extremely obscene motion with it. Arthur scowls at him.

"Stop molesting the produce, Mr. Eames. We have work to be doing."

Eames just laughs.


	4. Musicians

IV. _To sing you to sleep in your bedroom speakers._

"Oh my God," Arthur groans, "I hate the Midwest."

"Hey," Ariadne says, "I grew up in the Midwest."

"That doesn't make it any less flat and boring," he replies. "It all looks _exactly the same_."

She has to concede the point. "It does suck to be driving through it for forever," she admits. She's spinning one of her drumsticks in her hand absently, sitting curled up on her bunk with her bare feet under the edge of the blankets.

"How much longer have we got 'til Chicago?"

"Longer than you'd like," Cobb retorts from the driver's seat. Arthur sighs and flops back on his bed, grabbing for his iPod.

"Let me know when life gets interesting again," he announces to the bus at large, and puts his headphones on.

Really, Eames thinks as he climbs the ladder to Arthur's bunk, he was practically asking for this.

"Augh!" There's a thump when Arthur's head hits the roof of the tour bus, and Eames laughs.

"Thought you were bored, darling."

"Fuck you," Arthur snaps.

"Well, that _was_ more or less the idea."

"You were _groping me_. On the tour bus, with everyone else in it."

"Oh, is that the problem?" Eames says cheerfully. "I can wait until we stop for lunch and the others are gone to feel you up, if that's your only objection."

"I hate you," Arthur informs him flatly, "now get off my bunk."

"Eames, stop sexually harassing Arthur," Cobb calls, with the long-suffering air of being the only mature one in the band. Eames swoops in and plants a loud, smacking kiss on Arthur's mouth, then grins and climbs back down to his own bed beneath.

They've got three hours on the road before it's time to stop for lunch, and Eames leaves Arthur to his seething in favor of a nap.

* * *

There had been almost no time between getting to Chicago and the start of a long soundcheck, most of which had consisted of Arthur and Nash sniping at one another. Nash is their longtime sound engineer, and he knows the band's sound. Unfortunately, he's also Arthur's ex, so things between them remain strained at the best of times– and after hours and hours cooped up in the bus with nothing to do or even look at, this is not one of those times. Arthur's mood is hardly congenial.

"Again," Nash calls, and Ariadne rolls her eyes and gives them a count with her drumsticks. Yusuf, slouched at the bench behind his keyboard, shoots her a commiserating look. When matters descend into a stupid bickering shouting match across the auditorium, though, Eames has had enough. He heaves a sigh.

"Boys, either get a ruler or get a _room_ ," he says loudly, and hears Ariadne snicker behind him. "Unless you want to wreck Dom's voice before the show with too many run-throughs, we're done until showtime."

"Amen to that," Dom says, and turns off his mic.

"What I don't get," Eames says backstage as Arthur is putting away his guitar, "is why you two can't move the fuck on, already."

"I'm moved on," Arthur says irritably, "I'm so moved on, words cannot express how very moved on I am. However, I can't say the same for Nash, and unfortunately he knows which buttons to push."

"Driving your perfectionist self up a wall, namely."

Arthur nods.

"Why did you two split in the first place, anyway? First you were fine, next thing I know you weren't speaking to each other. Talk about whiplash."

"Ah." Arthur scowls and locks up his guitar case. "He tried to cheat on me."

"Tried to?"

"Would have, too, traitorous bastard, except Saito was having none of it. I'm more important to the band than Nash, is probably what it boils down to, seeing as Saito is the manager. Also that I doubt he was at all interested, but at any rate he told me as soon as it happened."

"Nash tried to go behind your back with _Saito?_ Seriously?"

"I know."

Eames shakes his head. "This is one of those times where truth is stranger than fiction."

"What's the fiction?"

"Idle and increasingly improbable speculation with Yusuf while we were drunk in San Francisco. Honestly, I don't remember most of it. I think interior decorating might have been somehow involved."

"Drunk with Yusuf, or high with Yusuf?" Arthur asks, arching a brow, and Eames snorts.

"I was with _Yusuf_ ," he says, and Arthur shakes his head.

"Of course. Both. How foolish of me."

"How foolish indeed, darling. I'm going to grab a bite, want to join?"

"No thanks. I'm not hungry." Arthur barely eats before he performs, so the answer is pretty much expected. Eames just nods.

"See you for the show, then," he says, and departs with a jaunty wave.

Arthur returns to the bus. It is, for once, quiet, and he curls up in his bunk with a battered book of Sartre and settles in to read.

* * *

Arthur always looks viciously gorgeous when he's dressed for a show, all the dark hot smolder of a rock star but without the need for attention. He's gorgeous eye candy and hot guitar licks onstage, but he is still Arthur, reserved and smart and content to let Dom lead. He has on black leather pants tonight, honest-to-goodness black leather. It clings tight to his long legs, teasing, and it would take a much nobler or a much straighter man than Eames not to notice. Arthur's shirt is a gray and close-fitted button down with black pinstripes, the sleeves rolled up and the buttons open halfway down his chest. He has a black leather cuff around one wrist, and his hair is loose around his face.

Plus, of course, Arthur has always played his guitar like he's going to fuck it, and Eames... let's just say Eames is glad of the concealment his bass provides.

"Great show, guys," Dom says as they're packing up, but Eames isn't really listening– he's watching Arthur flirt with a pretty young woman who Eames has never seen before. He tries not to let his blood boil with jealousy.

"Eames!"

"Hm?"

Ariadne clicks her tongue. "She's a rep for Fender," she tells him, indicating Arthur and the woman with a jerk of her head, "and they're talking shop, so chill out."

"Oh."

"Also? If you want him, you should probably do something about it while he's still available. Just saying."

Ariadne saunters off to join Dom and Yusuf, and Eames scowls. Nosy girl.

Then they are loading up their gear, and it's time to get back on the road. "I'll drive," Arthur volunteers, "I'm too wired to rest." Dom tosses him the keys while the group settles in, and they're on their way to Indianapolis.

* * *

The rest of the band have gone to hit one of the local bars, but Arthur had stayed behind and waited for the rest of them to leave before pulling his acoustic up to the top bunk with him and testing the tuning. He seldom plays the acoustic guitar on tour, but he can never bear to leave it behind– in truth he much prefers it, and he always writes better music with it in his hands instead of the electric.

Slender fingers pluck at the strings, idly at first, but gradually the notes coalesce into a melody, something low and sad and haunting that seems out of place in the cramped, chaotic tour bus. Arthur is blind to the outside world, though, his head bent over the guitar as he croons quiet, wordless notes in harmony. So many of the band's songs are born like this, born of Arthur sitting alone in a room with his guitar. Then comes Dom's words, the rhythmic foundation of Ariadne's drums and Eames' bass, the tweaking and finishing off by Yusuf. By the end of the process, the song is whole, but worlds apart from the stripped-down, quiet musings of Arthur and his guitar.

By the time the others straggle in, the guitar is safely back in its case and Augustana is playing on the stereo.

"Hey, 'Bullets!'" Ariadne exclaims brightly as she bounds on to the bus, albeit with less coordination than she has when she's sober. "I like this song. _She's shaking in the car with the gun in her hands, falling over love and a sweet romance_..."

Arthur smiles indulgently at her, and Eames helps her clamber up the ladder to her bunk. Ariadne strips out of her jeans and shirt with no concern for the three men in the room, by now long used to sharing such close quarters with them, and starts tugging her pajamas on.

"Where's Dom?" Arthur asks, and the other three laugh.

"Remember that pretty French girl?" Yusuf asks.

"The singer-songwriter with the "voice of an angel," you mean?" Arthur says, rolling his eyes. "As if he would let anyone forget."

"Yeah, well, she's passing through town too," Eames explains, "small world of summer touring, I guess. Anyway, I don't think he'll be coming back here tonight."

"Maybe getting laid will loosen him up," Ariadne says optimistically.

"If it works on Dom, I'm trying it on Arthur," Eames mutters, and Arthur throws a pillow at his head.

"Nice try."

Eames throws the pillow back to him and turns the music off. "Night, oh stick-in-the-mud," he says, climbing into the bottom bunk. Arthur closes his eyes, listening to the familiar rustles of Eames getting settled in for the night.

"Go to sleep, Eames," Arthur murmurs, muffled by his pillow. Below, Eames smiles into the dark as Yusuf flicks off the light.

* * *

The band is getting ready for their Columbus show, and Eames is having issues. Serious issues. Serious trouser-related issues. The first of these issues is that Arthur is wearing a pair of very tight jeans with a conspicuous rip up the thigh. The second issue is a direct result of the first, and involves Eames feeling very constricted in the crotch. There's no way he can go onstage with a hard-on like this.

"Back in five," Eames says to Yusuf, and disappears into the bathroom backstage, locking himself inside and pulling his cock out to jerk off in quick, rough strokes, thinking of Arthur's perfect ass, thinking of being buried inside him. How hot and how tight he'd be, what it would be like to hear Arthur gasping and moaning under him.

Eames comes with a ragged gasp, then cleans up and tucks himself away.

"There you are," Dom hisses, dragging him back to the others almost as soon as Eames ha stepped out of the bathroom. "We're about to go onstage."

"Had to use the loo," Eames answers, and Arthur looks at Eames like he _knows_. He says nothing, though, just pushes the curtain aside and strides onstage.

* * *

"Okay, so," Ariadne says, latching on to Dom's elbow and poking him in the ribs with the drumsticks held in her other hand, "we are going out, and you are telling me all about the date with your French goddess over drinks."

"We are?"

"You dedicated 'Waiting For a Train' to her, Dom," Ariadne says, and Yusuf nods agreement.

"Looks like your grace period is up, Dom," Arthur says, and claps a hand on his shoulder. "Have fun." He peels off from the rest of the band, and Eames watches him go.

"Coming with, Eames?" Yusuf asks, and Eames shakes his head.

"You'll have to dish without me, loves. Catch me up later."

"Sure thing," Ariadne agrees amiably. "Good luck with Arthur."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Eames answers, and winks.

He ambles back to the bus, hands in his pockets and fidgeting with a guitar pick he keeps there. When he returns, he finds Arthur bent over his acoustic guitar, wearing a loose tee shirt but the same damnable jeans. Eames pauses at the front of the bus, not so much watching as listening– hearing Arthur on acoustic is a rare pleasure.

"Is that song new?" he finally asks, and Arthur looks up.

"Working on it," he agrees with a nod. His voice is low and quiet, calmer than usual. It's nice.

Eames cocks his head slightly, watching the other man for a moment before asking, "Can I come up?"

"Yeah, sure."

Eames joins Arthur on the top bunk, and Arthur shifts to make more room for him on the narrow bed. "I never hear you play that," Eames says, nodding at the acoustic guitar in Arthur's hands, and Arthur smiles faintly and looks down.

"I know. It's... kind of personal, honestly."

"If you want me to go..."

"No." Arthur pauses, looks up at Eames through the fall of his hair. "No, I don't. There's something I'd like you to hear, actually. I should probably have played it for you ages ago."

"All right." Eames gestures for Arthur to go ahead, a little bewildered. Arthur bends to the guitar again, and Eames watches those long, deft fingers picking out the notes of a soft, warm-sounding melody, tender and a little tentative. There's uncertainty there, yes, but something hopeful too. Something content. Eames becomes aware, suddenly, achingly aware of the stillness between them, of the distance, of the space, and his next breaths come with difficulty. He feels overwhelmed.

The final note seems to quiver in the air, hanging between them like a question mark, lingering. Eames swallows hard, and when Arthur meets his eyes the guitarist is flushing a very faint pink across his cheekbones.

"It's called 'Dream Bigger,'" Arthur murmurs, and Eames gently, almost reverently, takes the guitar from Arthur's hands and brings it down to set back in its case. When he is back on Arthur's bed, only then does he whisper, voice raw in his throat, "You should have said."

"We're in the same band," Arthur says, "I thought maybe– I was afraid it wasn't a good idea. It probably _isn't_ a good idea."

"I don't care," Eames tells him, and pulls Arthur in close. "I want you. I've wanted you for a long time, and you should have said something."

"I needed the time," Arthur answers, "but I'm here now."

They fall to the bed together, and Eames kisses Arthur deep and slow the way he's been wanting to all this time. Arthur's lips are thin but soft, and he wraps his arms around Eames and holds him while they kiss and kiss and kiss until Eames feels dizzy.

"Arthur," he murmurs, "can I–"

"Yeah. Please," he adds, softer, and Eames pulls Arthur's shirt off him, then moves to peel off those tight, tight jeans. They prove a bit of a challenge, and Arthur gives a delicious wriggle to help Eames slide the denim down past his narrow hips. Not surprisingly, Arthur doesn't have anything on underneath, and for a long moment Eames just stares at Arthur, lying naked and trusting and beautiful under him.

"You're amazing," Eames tells him, and then he is kissing Arthur everywhere, mapping his skin with his lips, and Arthur smiles. He inhales softly when Eames' mouth is on his nipple, and inhales more sharply, squirming, when plush lips graze the tender inside of an arm.

"Tickles," Arthur protests, and Eames smiles and blows a teasing little puff of air over the spot; it makes Arthur jump.

What Eames really wants to have his mouth on isn't Arthur's arm, though, and he slinks down his partner's body to suck the head of Arthur's cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head, pressing at the slit. Arthur makes a choked, needy sound and fists a hand in the sheets; the other hand clutches at Eames' shoulder.

"Eames," Arthur groans when Eames takes him deeper and starts to suck in earnest, wrapping his hand around the base of Arthur's cock and stroking in time to the rhythm of his mouth. Arthur's pupils are blown so wide his dark eyes look completely black, and soon his hips are twitching helplessly and he's whining, "Eames, close, _Eames_ ," in a desperate, breathless voice, and Eames swallows the salty rush of Arthur's release when he comes with a wordless cry.

"Fuck, Eames," Arthur whispers, and pulls him up for a fierce, messy kiss, licking traces of his own come from Eames' mouth as he pulls Eames' clothes off as quickly as he can manage in the languidness of afterglow. "You want me to return the favor?"

Eames makes a sound that's almost a growl. "Another time, right now I just need..."

He doesn't have to finish the thought, Arthur presses their bodies together and wraps his hand around Eames' erection, stroking him and smearing precome on both their bellies. "You're so fucking hot," Arthur whispers, breath puffing against Eames' ear, "God, Eames, the things I want to do to you. I want to suck you off, taste you, watch you come undone just from my mouth. I want to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me, so hard and deep it almost hurts to walk afterward. I want to ride you, sink down on that gorgeous fat cock and watch you while I fuck myself on you..." he gives an expert twist of his wrist, and between his hand and his voice Eames is done for, spilling between them with a moan.

"I'll get us something to clean up with," Arthur murmurs after a moment, and Eames chuckles.

"Good plan. You're pretty damn dirty."

Arthur grins, dimpling, and fetches some tissues to wipe themselves off with, tossing them in the trash before crawling under the covers and curling up against Eames.

"The others will be back soon," Eames murmurs, and Arthur snuggles closer with a sigh.

"Don't care."


	5. Camp Counselors

V. _It's the time of year when things are growing wild._

"It's unnatural," Eames says. He's watching Arthur across the way as he helps Dom arrange picnic tables. Mal follow his gaze.

"What, Arthur?"

"Who the hell looks put-together _in the middle of the woods_?" he demands, then frowns and looks at her accusingly. "You know what, I'm asking the wrong person."

Mal laughs and pats Eames on the shoulder. "I promise I'll be as dirty and disgusting as the rest of you once the campers get here tomorrow. But you can't pretend you don't like looking at Arthur and his inexplicably spotless shirts."

"I'd like it better _without_ the shirts."

"That goes without saying, Eames. You've not exactly made a secret of it."

"Anyone that clean is meant to get dirty," Eames answers, "and I do mean _dirty_."

Mal fishes in the pocket of her shorts and hands a small packet to Eames. "Filched it from the mess hall while I was helping set up," she says, "I hope red's okay with you."

"Red will do marvelously," he assures her with a grin, pocketing it. "You are an angel, my dear."

"I suspect Arthur will beg to differ," Mal replies, amused. "Use it wisely."

"Naturally. The old shower trick, you think, or should I try something new? Just for variety's sake."

"He's wise to the shower thing."

"You make a good point."

"I always do. Have you met the new counselor for the girls yet?"

"Ariadne? Yeah, she seems like she'll be good with the kids, even if she's barely taller than they are."

Mal's eyes sparkle, bright and amused. "She's cute."

"Cuter than Dom?"

"Dom isn't cute, Dom is handsome. Ariadne is cute."

"You could tell her that eating you out is part of her first-year hazing."

Mal perks up. "I could, couldn't I?"

"Whatever you two are planning over there, stop it," Arthur calls. "Nothing good ever comes of it, and camp won't get ready by itself!"

Mal beats a hasty retreat toward the girls' cabins, and Eames rolls his eyes and goes over to help Arthur and Dom.

* * *

Arthur privately loathes craft time. He's not very artistic and generally resents having do do things he can't do excellently, but mostly he just dislikes the messes that result. Messes he always seems to wind up getting stuck with cleaning. Not that he complains– he doesn't– but it gets on his nerves. The others know perfectly well that mess and disorder eat at Arthur and that all they have to do is ignore it a while to get Arthur to snap and take care of it himself. His own compulsiveness will be the death of him.

At least Eames is outside with his group today. The campers with him are tie-dying everything white they could get their hands on, and Eames will doubtless be spending the rest of the session in a variety of horrifying, brightly-colored eyesores masquerading as tee-shirts, but at least the dye won't be getting spilled in the cabin. Ariadne's group are weaving on small hand looms, Dom's are carving bits of wood, and Mal's are stringing necklaces and bracelets while Arthur's group make dreamcatchers.

"Not the most masculine choice," Ariadne ribs lightly, and Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"I'm perfectly secure in my masculinity, Ariadne, thanks for your concern," he says mildly, and returns his gaze to the latticework of thin strings resting in his lap. He knows by the shadow she casts that she's peering over at his work.

"It's pretty."

"Thanks." Arthur knots a feather carefully into place. "So, has your first-year hazing started yet?"

"Hazing?" she echoes, concerned, and Arthur's lips quirk.

"Evidently not, then," he surmises. "Watch out for the damn shower trick."

"Shower trick?" Ariadne presses, just as Eames walks back inside to fetch more supplies.

"The Kool-Aid in the showerhead trick," he answers brightly, "go on, ask Arthur about the incident with the grape."

"I hate you," Arthur informs him, and Eames blows a kiss and waltzes back out. Ariadne raises her eyes and glances around to see if anyone else has noticed the exchange.

"So married," Mal mouths at her across the room, and Ariadne smothers a giggle.

Arthur glances around to make sure the campers are suitably distracted, then flips Mal an inappropriate gesture that just makes her grin. Mal knows she's right.

* * *

"Eames!" Arthur's voice is furious, and when he stalks into view he's wearing jeans but no shirt. It would be a dead sexy look on him if he didn't also look so rabidly enraged. Eames pokes his head out of the neighboring cabin, a shit-eating grin on his face. The rest of the camp is gathering at the sound of Arthur shouting.

"Problem, Arthur?" Eames asks innocently, as if he's fooling _anyone_. Arthur seizes him by the front of the shirt and drags him bodily the rest of the way out of his cabin.

"My shirts," Arthur spits, "my _shirts_ , what did you _do?!_ "

"Oh, that?" His grin gets wider, toothy. "I didn't have any white shirts of my own for the tie-dying the other day, so I did yours. You could use some more colour in your wardrobe."

Arthur manages not to swear in front of the campers, but it's a very close-run thing. "I will drown you in the lake," he growls instead.

"Why, Arthur! You want to see me all wet? And here I thought you didn't care!"

Arthur's hand curls into a fist, but Dom grabs hold of his arm before any violence is done. "Arthur," Dom says firmly, but Arthur struggles on principle.

" _My shirts_ ," he repeats, because clearly Dom doesn't understand the gravity of this situation. "One of them is _pink and yellow_ , Dom."

"Pink will suit you," Dom says soothingly, glossing over the fact that yellow makes Arthur look horribly sallow. No need to rub it in– Arthur can get out of his hold if he's motivated enough, after all.

"You're a terrible liar," Arthur retorts, wrenching free, but manages to refrain from lunging at Eames, at least in front of everyone. "This isn't over, Eames," he sneers, and stalks off.

Immediately, the girls begin to titter, and Dom groans.

"Now they're going to be obsessed with him the rest of the month," he hisses to Eames, "you owe me for having to put up with this."

"To be fair, that wasn't the intended result," Eames says, leering after Arthur's retreating back, "just a pleasant bonus."

"I don't know why I hire you people," Dom grumbles.

* * *

"I hate the water gun fights," Arthur confides to Ariadne. "Eames in a wet shirt. It's like the universe is laughing at me."

"And Dom hates that you use innocent camp fun for foreplay," Ariadne replies, "and _I_ hate that I'm already speculating about what Mal has on under her tank top. No one is happy here, so shut up."

"Bikini top," Arthur says, then backpedals. "Wait a minute. You, Mal?"

"I said shut up, and how did you know that?"

"You just said."

"No, no. Bikini."

"This isn't my first summer working with Mal," he replies, and turns to fill his water gun. "Relax, I'm not your competition. Dom is."

Ariadne scowls. "Thanks for rubbing it in."

"See? Water gun fights are horrible. So of course the campers fucking love them."

Eames has loaded his Super Soaker with red Kool-Aid, but Arthur doesn't explode anywhere near as dramatically as Eames might have hoped– the shirt he's wearing is already ruined with tie-dye, after all. Arthur takes it with the calm of a man plotting horrible revenge and sics his campers on Eames in a brutal rush for vengeance, and the water gun fight devolves into a mad free-for-all. Dom looks like he has a headache. There's a lot of yelling.

It's pretty much what Arthur had expected, in short. Thank goodness tomorrow is archery; Arthur likes taking out the frustrations of being a camp counselor on the haystack targets.

Mal sometimes implies that Arthur has anger issues. Arthur implies that she needs a better hobby than providing running commentary on his life. Also, he's not sure how trustworthy the judgment of a woman whose favorite part of camp is scaring the campers into tearful insomnia with scary stories around the fire is.

Arthur likes archery. He's a superb shot, and there's something satisfying about the twanging release of tension when the bowstring snaps forward. It's not a particularly practical skill, but it's one he happens to be privately proud of.

"I wouldn't stand there if I were you," Arthur advises the figure in his peripheral vision, his gaze still fixed on the target in front of him. "My aim is good, but the same can't be said of most of the campers."

Eames chuckles, and Arthur's arrow strikes the bull's-eye. "I thought you and your lot were going on a trail ride," he adds.

"We got back a little early," Eames answers easily, and Arthur lowers his bow and glances along the line of his campers in front of the targets. Judging them under control for the time being, he turns to Eames.

"So you decided that hanging around me when I'm armed was a wise choice?" he inquires mildly, and Eames' grin widens.

"We have strategy to discuss, Arthur. Cobb's putting us together for capture the flag this year."

"He is?" Arthur asks, startled. "But we're always on opposite teams."

"Maybe Cobb got sick of you using capture the flag as a thinly-veiled excuse to cause me grievous bodily harm. Or maybe Yusuf did, he's the one who has to patch everyone up."

"He does get twitchy about the whole business," Arthur agrees, and lets Eames lift the bow from his hands to examine it. "So did you have any thoughts?"

"I think it's just as well that you didn't get paired up with Mal, I'm pretty sure she'd just seduce the flag location out of Ariadne. As far as strategy, I have some tricks up my sleeve."

Arthur eyes him suspiciously. "They involve rope traps, don't they." It isn't really a question, even though it's phrased like one.

"I have no idea what makes you assume that," Eames replies airily, plucking an arrow from Arthur to notch to the bow.

"I've been burned before, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, deadpan, but his expression is almost amused. "Your stance is atrocious, by the way. If you're going to hold the bow, hold the bow. Elbow up."

"Yes, sir," he retorts sarcastically, and straightens.

The arrow hits right beside Arthur's.

* * *

"Eames!" Mal shrieks, " _Putain_ , let me down!"

There is a sound of crunching leaves, and Arthur appears with a cluster of giggling campers in tow. All wear blue shirts and evil smiles, and Mal struggles fruitlessly in the ropes that have caught her in a large tree.

"Mal, Mal," he says, clicking his tongue, "trying to sneak into enemy territory when the rest of us are working on compass skills like we're supposed to? For _shame_."

"Arthur," Mal says, "I can't feel my leg. Let me down, please?"

He smiles pleasantly at her. "You used to help Eames make these traps," he replies, "surely you can get down on your own."

Mal swears loudly and very creatively, but has the consideration to do it in French so that the campers can't understand her. Eames, explaining to the Fisher kid how compasses work, grins at Arthur as he passes by.

Capture the flag is the crowning experience of summer camp, a week-long war of subterfuge between the two teams. The usual activities go on as always, save that they are interspersed with time for the two sides to hunt for the other team's hidden flag and defend their own; this doesn't stop anyone from trying to stealthily search when they're supposed to be doing something else, except maybe for Cobb.

Cobb has long since stopped trying to keep anybody else in line, though.

"Might want to go untie your teammate," Eames says casually to Ariadne later, when everyone is making their way back to the mess hall for lunch.

Cobb sighs heavily. "Go make sure she doesn't die in a rope trap," he says, resigned. "I'll save you a sandwich."

Ariadne leaves at a quick jog, and Eames shoots Arthur a grin as he shepherds her campers inside along with his own.

Mal hadn't even been close.

* * *

"Somehow, I get the idea this didn't go quite how you planned," Ariadne remarks, and starts climbing up the tree to reach Mal.

"You could say that," Mal admits, twisting in the ropes to look at Ariadne. "Think you can get me out of here?"

"Oh, sure," Ariadne agrees, "but you'll have to give me a good reason."

"...Excuse me?"

"The others are watching my campers, and here I am alone with a gorgeous woman tied up. Would _you_ let you down?"

"Yes," Mal replies me, "I'm a much better lay when my hands are free." She meets the younger woman's gaze, unblinking, and then Ariadne grins and starts untying knots.

"Their flag must be around here somewhere," Ariadne muses as she works on setting Mal loose. "They wouldn't have bothered setting traps if you weren't getting close."

"We can look around for more traps later," Mal answers, grabbing hold of a tree branch to take her weight while Ariadne undoes the rest of the ropes. Once the last knot is untied, Mal settles herself on the same sturdy branch as Ariadne, watching her with a wicked sparkle in her eyes. "Right now I can think of some better things to do with this time."

Ariadne raises her eyebrows, expression both coy and challenging. "Do you need to climb down, or will here do?"

Mal leans forward and presses herself full against Ariadne, one hand braced on the trunk of the tree and the other snaking up under the hem of Ariadne's shirt. She smells of sunscreen and dirt and the faint tang of sweat, and her breasts are heavy and warm against Ariadne.

"Not if you don't," she purrs, and kisses her.

* * *

Eames wakes to a hand over his mouth, but he struggles only briefly before he realizes who it is that has crept into his cabin. Wordlessly, he pulls on the jeans he had been wearing earlier and then follows Arthur out into the darkness.

"Creepy way to wake a bloke," Eames says, once there's no risk of waking anyone with the sound of their voices. Arthur flashes him a brief, dimpled smile.

"Mal and Ariadne think they know where our flag is."

"The traps?"

Arthur nods. "Three others have been undone, they're pretty sure it's over there."

"So you're saying my plan was, in fact, brilliant."

Arthur looks amused. "I am, grudgingly, impressed."

"Much as I appreciate it, darling, did you really need to wake me up at three in the morning to tell me that?"

"Don't be absurd, Eames. I wouldn't wake you for something unimportant."

There is a pause.

"Arthur," Eames says slowly, "would you care to enlighten me as to why we're walking toward the lake?"

"Fancied a swim."

"In my company?"

Arthur quirks a brow. "I may, also, have found where the red team hid their flag."

"That's much more like the Arthur I know."

They reach the lake, and Arthur toes off his shoes. "I wasn't kidding about the swim, though."

"I'm not wearing my trunks."

"Neither am I," Arthur replies, and starts stripping of his clothes. "Not like anyone's here to see us."

Eames can't quite help but stare as Arthur, naked, sets his clothes in a pile on the edge of the dock and slides into the still lake water. His skin is marble-pale in the moonlight, and Eames can't quite help but stare after him.

"I'll pull you in with your clothes on if you don't hurry up," Arthur calls, and it's not that Eames doesn't want to follow, it's just that there's no way to avoid Arthur noticing the hard-on he's given Eames if he strips down. Fuck.

"You don't need me for this," Eames hedges, and Arthur rolls his eyes and levers himself up out of the water to grab Eames by the ankle.

"Never would have pegged you for a prude," Arthur says, and Eames lets out a laugh that's really just a huff of air.

"Fine. You're the one who wanted this, remember," Eames retorts, and drops his jeans to his ankles. His erection is obvious, tenting his boxers, but Arthur doesn't seem upset or embarrassed or even surprised as Eames slips those off, too, leaving him bare and aroused in the cool light of the waxing moon.

"Oh, Eames," Arthur murmurs, almost exasperated, "get in the water." He backs up a little to make room, and it's cold when Eames jumps in, but not quite cold enough to convince his body to ignore Arthur.

"Pigtail pulling," Arthur says, "really? The pranks, is that what that was?"

"You didn't _know_?"

"Tie-dying my shirts isn't exactly a way to get on my good side," Arthur says dryly, and Eames has to admit it's a fair point.

"Sorry."

"Not a bad strategy if you want to get me never to wear them, though, I'll admit," he adds, almost an afterthought, and then dives beneath the glassy surface of the lake.

Eames swears softly under his breath and follows.

Arthur reappears, shaking his waterlogged hair out of his eyes, near the old dock that they didn't use anymore– it was rickety and dangerous, and the new one was better designed, anyway.

"Look at this," Arthur says, and tugs a fine net up out of the water. It strains when he does it, obviously anchored somewhere, and both of them know perfectly well that the old dock has never been netted off before.

Eames whistles. "Clever," he says. "How the hell did you find it?"

"Complete accident," Arthur admits. "Some of the younger campers were daring each other during afternoon swim the other day to come out here and dive off it, and Cobb asked me to handle them."

"And you found the net."

"Exactly."

"Someone must have forgotten to count on adventurous sprogs," Eames says with a chuckle. "Probably Ariadne, she's new. Let's untie that net, shall we?"

Arthur smiles at him and moves closer, treading water as near as he can to stretch forward and press a brief kiss to Eames' lips. "Let's."

The red flag, as Arthur had predicted, is hidden under the dock, and they tow it back to the shore. Eames lifts it from Arthur's hands and sets it aside, then presses him down on the soft, wet earth.

"I'm going to molest you now, if that's all right," he murmurs, and in answer Arthur pulls him down and kisses him properly, deep and wet and eager.

"I'll take that as a yes," Eames says against his lips, husky, and Arthur chuckles and arches his hips, his cock hard now against Eames.

"Yes," Arthur says, "please."

Eames groans low in his throat and thrusts back, rutting against the younger man like they're teenagers, but fuck it feels good, Arthur squirming and breathless under him, silt streaked on his skin from the banks of the lake and Eames' hands. _Dirty_ , exactly how Eames has wanted him for some long, and Arthur makes the most delicious whimpering noises when Eames wraps his hand around both of them.

"Eames," he moans, "Eames, I'm–"

"Me too," Eames whispers, "fuck, darling, come on..."

Eames comes first despite himself, spilling all over Arthur's belly, but it only takes a few more pumps of his fist before Arthur is right there with him, arching helplessly as he spurts over Eames' hand.

They lie silent, catching their breaths, before Arthur finally murmurs something about washing up and gets back into the water. Eames joins him, and then they dress and walk back to the cabins without a word until they part.

"Goodnight."

"Sure you don't want another round?"

A smile. "I'll see you tomorrow. Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

Arthur kisses him goodnight.

* * *

The camp wakes the next day to see a red flag planted proudly in front of Eames' cabin, and Arthur wearing a godawful yellow and pink tie-dyed shirt. Mal sulks for the majority of the morning, never one to take defeat easily, but the significance of the shirt isn't lost on her, and by the time lunch is over she is smiling at them both.

"About time," she tells them, "now you two can help me with Dom."

"Dom, huh?" Eames murmurs skeptically. "Not Ariadne?"

Mal smiles like a cat with a canary. "I misspoke. You can help _us_."

Arthur sighs, long-suffering expression firmly in place, but he sounds fond when he replies, "We'll see what happens next summer."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is brought to you by Lady Gaga and drunken encouragement from sorrynotsorry & chibi_lurrel.


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